


Naturalization

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-15
Updated: 2006-10-15
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Habit, if not resisted, soon becomes necessity.





	Naturalization

“Wha’sa free lair war fara Hessian wok?”

Very slowly, Aziraphale raised his gaze from his newspaper. He blinked.

“Er.” Crowley pulled the pencil out of his mouth. “Three letter word for an unsung worker.”

“Kindly remove your shoes from the upholstery.”

Crowley lifted his feet several inches above the surface of the settee, allowing them to hover there for a moment before crashing back onto the immaculate paisley swirls of the cushion. He raised his eyebrows coaxingly. “Well?”

“Really,” Aziraphale replied, and stirred his tea. Silver struck china in a succession of neat _clip-claps_. He breathed in before taking a sip. “How would you like it if I trampled dirt round _your_ flat?”

Crowley thought on this. “Imp,” he said, after a long moment. He braced the folded newsprint on his knee and filled in the tiny blocks. “They’re underrepresented.”

“Wait,” Aziraphale said automatically. “I think it’s ‘cog,’ actually.”

“What about a six letter word for the sound an egg makes as it hits the pavement?”

“ _Splack_.”

“And a poet’s greatest enemy?”

“Critics.”

“Eleven letters.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, paused, then pounced: “Consumption.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. He poked the tip of his tongue between his lips as he wrote out the word. He knew the answer to next prompt. _Cagney_. And the one after that. _Open sesame_.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Crowley asked, not looking up. And then: “The cruelest month.”

“April.”

“Mm. I’d have thought December.”

“My dear?”

Crowley tapped his pencil across the page, and then made a note on the margin. “Yeah?”

“ _What_ are you doing?”

“Crossword puzzle.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “And _why_ are you doing a crossword puzzle?”

Crowley met Aziraphale’s eye. He’d spent the last few hours in the angel’s shop, drinking tea and enjoying the premature autumn chill from the comfort of the right side of a window pane. It seemed the sort of thing people did on Sunday afternoons. He straightened. “Why not?” he asked. “ _You’re_ always wasting time on the blessed things.”

“I know, but--”

“Look,” Crowley continued. He leaned forward to allow Aziraphale a view of the puzzle, but pulled it away again as he read, “‘Test your knowledge! First-place winner will receive a very important award graciously donated by the Hemmings House Agency of Blackburn, Lancashire.”

For a fleeting moment, the image of what might be included under the heading “very important award” grew up before his eyes. This is not to say he hadn’t been the recipient of such things in the past, for his knack for good fortune could never be in doubt, but rather that he had not received one that day.

It would be, he thought, no small thing. Perhaps something daunting and ostensibly literary, like a set of exclusive gold-leafed encyclopedias with which he might impress the angel. But then again, no: it would be a timeshare in Malta at the very least.

He smiled to himself, continuing, “Second place, yada yada... paid subscription. ‘All winners will be notified by postcard within six weeks.’”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Award? A clock radio, I should think,” he said, lightly. And then, “Or a nice new toaster oven!”

“Yeah,” Crowley said soberly, standing up. He pushed the puzzle into his jacket pocket, and adjusted his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Well. See you sometime.”

“Come. I didn’t mean it that way, really. It _could_ be something nice.”

“No,” Crowley said. He shook his head, and held forth the pencil. It was pockmarked with nibble holes clear to the tip; the eraser was worn down on one side. “You’re probably right.”

With a slight grimace, Aziraphale gestured and the pencil materialized in a coffee mug on his desk, once more in good health and appearance. The mirth which hung about his eyes had softened, and something quite different drifted up in its wake. “You don’t mean to say you’re leaving already? I’ve not yet pulled the cake from the oven, and I can’t be expected to eat it all myself.”

“What kind of cake is it?”

“Pineapple upside-down. You know, from my culinary journal. I even remembered to add walnuts this time.”

Crowley’s lips twitched. He did know. The warm, sticky-sweet scent of the cake had been wafting through the air for at least an hour, and it was all he could do to keep his stomach from rumbling. And after all, he’d missed lunch. “I hate walnuts,” he said.

“Oh, did I say walnuts?” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. “I meant almonds.”

“Fine. One piece.”

Crowley sat back down on the settee, crossing his legs; he did not remove the puzzle from his pocket, and even as the afternoon became evening and the evening became night, nor did Aziraphale mention it again.

\------------------

Six weeks and one day later, Crowley stood beside his door, waiting for the post.

It was a clammy sort of hour, all damp streets and gray sky. He’d been out and about in it for most of the afternoon, and if he’d half a care for the notion, he might have caught a rather unpleasant sniffle.

He told himself this: it’s no big deal. It’s nothing.

But when he heard the creak of the front apartment door and the echo of footsteps in the hall, his hands clenched into fists and his pulse quickened in his veins. There was the shuffle of wet clothes -- wool, he supposed, by the reek of it -- and a crisp flicker of paper.

He raised his hand to the knob, then paused. He wanted to pace himself.

The door swung open.

“Not stepping out, are we?” asked Aziraphale. He slid past Crowley and lingered in the entryway, shaking the occasional raindrop from his jacket to the floor. “You’re really not missing anything. I think I’d go so far as to call it _brisk_.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, and eyed the pattern the brownish droplets made on his tile.

“So _were_ you going out?”

“No,” said Crowley. And then: “Yes.”

Aziraphale reached forward and fingered the fine fabric of Crowley’s jacket. “Underdressed,” he said, not quite disapprovingly.

Later, when Crowley had settled into the sofa with a fresh bottle of wine, Aziraphale sat forward with a start. “Oh!” he said, and set his glass on the end table. “I almost forgot.”

“Didn’t pay your tithing?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said. He reached into his pocket and produced a neat brown folio. Tucked inside was a pair of tickets. “Here. The proprietor of a local cinema gave these to me. It’s a double feature, and though I’ve no recollection of the films as having been of any interest, I know you’re fond of adventure stories. I thought... Well, if you’re free.”

Crowley stifled a laugh. “ _Rudy_ ,” he read aloud, “and _The Charge of the Light Brigade_?”

“I’ll have you know that Alfred was a personal friend,” Aziraphale said, a trifle pettishly.

“I bet.”

“But anyway, it’s this coming Friday. Here’s your mail.”

Crowley took the proffered stack of letters, feeling the color drain from his cheeks.

“I met the postman on the stoop,” Aziraphale continued, and sipped his wine. “His feet were hurting, so I thought I’d save him the steps.”

Crowley sorted through the letters: here was a cherry cordial-colored invitation to a boot sale in Cornwall, there a coupon for a new set of radial tiers. There was a note which coaxed him to accept a credit card at 45% A.P.R., and a letter that pleaded him to donate generously to the Order of the Fife and Thistle, a bagpipe brigade from Glasgow by way of Milwaukee; there was a postcard from a woman in Surrey who was under the misapprehension that he had bequeathed her grandmother’s collection of perfume bottles.

“Well,” he said, after a moment. He tossed the stack into the rubbish bin, and watched a thin blue streak of smoke rise up as each placard and bill burst quietly into flame.

“You ought to be careful,” said Aziraphale, quite reasonably. “Old masonry and all.”

\------------------

The next day, Crowley made certain not to allow his actions to be dictated by the coming of the post. It was only because his schedule was miraculously clear that he was at home at all, and he had better things to do than pace the foyer. He didn’t even notice when the familiar creak of the mail-slot become a groan as a stack of letters flew through its flap. In fact, he was well on the other side of his flat.

Also: it was only a sixteen second jog to the door.

“Community bulletin,” he murmured, and dropped it in the bin. “Affidavit.” It fell on top of the bulletin. “Notice of closure.”

When he came to the postcard marked _URGENT_ , he almost took it for a joke. And it may well have been, for all the ornate script and antique stamps that graced its ruddy surface. It looked as though it had been sent from somewhere very far away. Blackburn, Lancashire, he noted, and read:

_A. J. Crowley (or Current Resident):_  
The End is Near!  
\-- The End of Low Expectations in Competitive Crosswording --  
We Are Pleased to Congratulate You on Your  
WINNING ENTRY  
& Announce the Impending Arrival  
of Your Award. 

_Messrs Cox, Smythe, Williams, & Pimento  
Hemmings House Agency_

Crowley tucked the postcard into his pocket, and decided a timeshare in Malta was mere crumbs compared to what he undoubtedly had coming to him.

But the award did not appear the next day, though he nonchalantly assured himself it would, nor the day after that, though he shed his apprehension and waited by the door. That was Thursday.

On Friday, he all but forgot about the whole wretched ordeal. He went to the cinema.

By the whim of something that wasn’t exactly physics, he and Aziraphale collectively decided there would not be a queue, and so there wasn’t one. In fact, aside from a group of elderly gentlemen in the back, and a couple of coupling teenagers in the balcony, they were the only patrons in attendance.

“Who knows why,” Aziraphale murmured between mouthfuls of popcorn. “It’s a gem of a building.”

And it was, rather.

The high arches of the ceiling thinned, gathered, and broke apart before the kind curve of the projection room; the seats were covered in crushed velvet of deep burgundy, and a neat draft pulled at the curtains which hung to either side of the screen, their own cast a color deeper still.

There was something about the place that spoke of warmth and peace of mind.

Aziraphale gently tapped Crowley’s hand, and then pointed to the wall. “Box seats,” he said. “Must have been boarded over when they renovated the building in the nineteen twenties. You can almost see...” He was smiling, and the fickle lamplight flushed his features.

But no, it wasn’t the box seats that once may have been. It wasn’t the shade of the balcony, or the tilt of the floor. It wasn’t the flicker and hiss of the screen as it felt the pull of wakefulness; it certainly wasn’t the flaking art deco décor, or the smiling pigment eyes of the painted cherubs that winged here and there above them.

It wasn’t that peculiar density of darkness that lives and dies by the will of the reel.

Crowley shook his head.

Beside him, Aziraphale shifted and sipped his cherry cola. Then he met Crowley’s eye. “Everything all right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Crowley.

“My dear?”

“Hmm?”

“You still have your sunglasses on.”

Crowley reached a hand to his face and was surprised to find that the angel was correct. “I know,” he said.

“How do you expect to see the film?” Aziraphale’s smile had become broader; there was a flake of popcorn fixed to the soft flesh below his right nostril. It wasn’t exactly a beauty mark.

“I don’t need to see it. I already know how it ends.”

This was true. He’d seen the film they were preparing to watch no less than two dozen times, and he felt a certain workman’s pride in previously ensuring that the cinema would have a copy on hand in the off-chance he would ever have to become a patron; he liked to plan ahead when it came to being a captive audience.

 _The Night of the Living Dead_. Aziraphale mouthed the words as they flickered in high, blue-white brilliance before them. “Funny,” he said, “I thought the program said--”

“Shh.” Crowley settled back into the firm cushion of his seat, crossed his legs, uncrossed his legs, and at last folded his arms across his chest. That way, when Aziraphale offered him some of his popcorn, he wouldn’t have to move very far.

But Aziraphale didn’t offer him any popcorn. In fact, the movement of his hand as it traversed the space between the paper bag and his mouth was so regular a rhythm that Crowley could faintly make out a gold ark in the half-light. Aziraphale’s smile had faded, and a knit etched its way across his brow.

When he discovered the emptiness at the bottom of his bag, he carefully folded it in such a way as to not add a layer of crumbs to the sticky enamel of the floor, and wiped his fingertips with his handkerchief.

Then he reached out for Crowley’s hand.

From behind the gleaming shield of his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes widened.

The living dead were coming on at full force now; it seemed that hope was something that happened to other, more fortunate people who did not have to contend have to contend with flesh-craving, linguistically-impaired denizens of the unpleasant hereafter.

He almost knew how they felt.

When a zombie lurched forward, Aziraphale flinched, and when Aziraphale flinched, he tightened his grip. Crowley felt a pinch in his stomach.

The zombies were doing a lot of lurching, and would continue to do so, Crowley knew, until the credits began to roll. It was just that sort of film.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. And then, a little later, and a little louder: “Aziraphale.”

The angel blinked, but didn’t look away from the screen. “Hmm?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, sure.”

Crowley swallowed. “I’ll need my arm.”

“What?”

“My arm.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale let his hand fall into his lap. “Sorry,” he said, quite softly.

Without another word, Crowley maneuvered himself down their row and up the isle, forward and out until he had reached the lobby. It was empty but for a sanguine young man working behind the concession booth, and another, slightly older one whispering sweet obscenities into a payphone.

Crowley pushed his hands into his pockets, looked about, and then made a beeline for the loo. Inside, the tiles that rose from the floor to the ceiling were a shade of green he assumed had been outlawed years ago, and the soap dispenser was empty, but the faucet was functional. He wet his hands, dragged his fingers through his hair, and leaned towards the splotched mirror to straighten his tie. Then, he waited.

Fifteen minutes passed, and then several more.

At last, with a deep breath and a final glance over his shoulder, he reentered the lobby, paid for a roll of red licorice and a sack of chocolate drops, and made his way back to his seat. The lights had gone up, and the screen was dark.

“Hi,” he said when Aziraphale spotted him. “How long until the next one?”

“Only a minute.” Aziraphale relieved him of the chocolates, scrutinized the label, and gently shook them as he pried open the plastic. He smiled and popped something into his mouth that looked suspiciously similar to a Danish truffle.

“And what did you think of the...”

The tiny pink tip of Aziraphale’s tongue darted across his lips. “It was short,” he said noncommittally.

Crowley cleared his throat.

When the next film began, he knew what it was even before the first note of the score swelled and soared. But he whispered, “It isn’t.”

“What?”

“ _Dr. Zhivago_.”

“Why, my dear boy,” said Aziraphale. He let out a short gasp. “You’re right.”

Crowley sank into his seat and prepared himself for the long winter.

When Aziraphale reached for his hand, he almost welcomed it, so hard was it to keep the still theatre air from chilling his limbs. He knew how this one ended, too.

He shifted to the left, and then he shifted to the right.

“Seat uncomfortable?” Aziraphale asked eventually.

The film was nearing its intermission, and Crowley had lost all feeling in the lower half of his body some forty minutes before. But he said, “I’m fine.”

“ _Are_ you?”

A pause. “Do you have any of those chocolates left?”

And Aziraphale did. As Crowley jostled the bag and gingerly retrieved a truffle from its depths, the angel whispered, “I’ll only be a moment,” and was gone.

In fact, he was gone for no less than an hour, and when he returned, he did so with such quiet and ease that Crowley only recognized his presence as Aziraphale took his hand with a light squeeze. His touch was warm, but Crowley could smell the recent rain on his clothes.

“Did I miss anything?”

“That chap...” Crowley allowed himself the satisfaction of a smirk. “Zhivago. Died of lung cancer, and so his girl joined the Moscow Circus. Turns out she was quite the tightrope walker.”

Aziraphale let out a short laugh. “You don’t say,” he said.

The rain was still coming down when they stood outside afterwards.

“Well,” murmured Aziraphale. His breath was visible as short puffs upon the air, and the light of the marquee made the tiny droplets in his hair shine like bits of blue glass. “How did you like it?”

“It was long,” Crowley said, after a moment. He shivered. “Well, thanks for the ticket.”

“My pleasure.”

“Good. I mean, we ought to--”

“Yes, let’s.”

Crowley took a step backwards. “I suppose I should be getting on.” He took a second step, and saw Aziraphale tighten his scarf about his neck.

Suddenly, the thought of the angel spending such a miserable night alone in his dusty bookshop was incomprehensible. But he said nothing, and instead found that one of them had closed the gap between them. Aziraphale’s lips were even warmer than his hands, and beneath the pervasive reek of damp wool, Crowley caught the scent of something that wasn’t quite a medley of sun warmed earth and spiced biscuits.

Then he slipped on the damp pavement, and lay on his back with his blood pounding in his ears for several moments before he heard the sound of laughter.

“My dear,” Aziraphale managed. Tears were welling at the corners of his eyes, and his frame shook even as he hoisted Crowley back to his feet. “Apparently it isn’t just eggs.”

Crowley set his jaw, adjusted his sunglasses, and briskly ran his gloved fingers over the front of his jacket. “It’s nothing,” he said.

And later, when they made it back to Crowley’s apartment without further incident, he said it again. But there was the hulking wooden crate on his doorstep, and here he and Aziraphale moved in unison to lift it inside.

“Whatever do you suppose it could be?” Aziraphale murmured, and ran his fingertips over the raw pine surface.

“A very important award.” Crowley leaned forward to loosen the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, and then pulled it free of his trousers; he held the angel’s cheek in his hand. When he kissed Aziraphale again, and touched the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s stomach, Aziraphale kissed him back.

“Don’t you want to open it?” Aziraphale breathed after several minutes had passed and several more articles of clothing had been shed. “You said it was important.”

“Later.”

“Really, you’d think that with all the work I put into it-- Er.”

Crowley’s eyes widened, but when he tried to pull away, Aziraphale wouldn’t allow it.

“Joking, joking,” he whispered, and slid his hands through Crowley’s hair.

It would have to wait, Crowley considered quite rationally, until morning.


End file.
